


Lying on the Cold Hard Ground

by musiclily88, sweet_disposition



Series: The Sexual Edification of Harry Styles [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: BDSM, Consensual Kink, Crossdressing, Crossdressing Kink, Dom Liam, Dom Louis, Dom Taylor, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, F/M, I hope you don't like Taylor because this is not a pleasant depiction of her, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mild Kink, Mildly Dubious Consent, Paddling, Professors, Sex Club, Slurs, Spanking, Sub Harry, Sub Zayn, gay slurs, mention of watersports, sissification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 17:49:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1826917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclily88/pseuds/musiclily88, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweet_disposition/pseuds/sweet_disposition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Subtitled, Harry Styles: Not That Good of a Sub, Either</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lying on the Cold Hard Ground

**Author's Note:**

> still drunk, still writing.
> 
> come love us

The thing is, Zayn’s out sick, and it’s Harry’s fourth month of work down to the day. “So,” Nick says slowly, sidling up to the front desk. “You’ve been working here a few months now. How’re you liking things thus far?”

“Good,” Harry drawls, settling back easily into his swivel chair. He enjoys swivel chairs for a great variety of reasons, not only because he likes to spin madly around during lulls at work.

“I was wondering if maybe, since Zayn’s out today, you’d be willing to sub for him.”

“Sub-sub? Like, do scenes?”

“Right.” Nick nods succinctly.

Harry considers it, pulling on his lower lip absently. “How many clients does he have today?”

“Just four. And you can keep all your tips!”

That’s the draw, really, because Harry _does_ need money. He’s hooked after just a few sentences, with no wheedling whatsoever on Nick’s part. He’s an easy case.

***  
Harry’s day is off to an auspicious start when he finds himself on all fours, wearing fluffy triangular kitten ears and a collar with a tiny bell. 

“There’s my pretty little kitty,” said the client, who told Harry to call him Mr. Winston when he was allowed to speak at all. “Where have they been keeping you, little kitty,” he muses aloud, setting down a dish in front of Harry before filling it with heavy cream.

“I actually work the front desk, but I’m filling in for Zayn because he’s sick—”

 _“I didn’t ask you,”_ Mr. Winston snaps, even though he technically did ask.

“S-sorry,” Harry bleats out quickly, face flushing.

“Sorry, what?”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Good kitty. Now drink your cream for me.”

Harry bends down and laps at the cream, which is room-temperature at best, making him gag slightly. He contemplates how much he should ask for in hazard pay, given that he’s stripped down to just his boxers and is not particularly interested in drinking cream.

“Such a pretty kitten,” Mr. Winston adds, ruffling Harry’s hair gently without dislodging the ears. “You like your treat, don’t you? Tasty, isn’t it?”

“Not really,” Harry mutters.

“What was that?”

“Meow?”

“Much better.”

Mr. Winston seems extremely passionate about, well, cats, and is very invested in realistic kitten play. Harry draws the line at wearing a butt-plug tail, because he refuses to put anything in there for any client no matter how masculine and demanding, but is saved from having to explain this because their session runs out just in time.

All of a sudden, Harry understands why Zayn keeps spliff and a bottle of tequila in the employee locker room.

He sheds the ears and collar, returning them to their rightful owner with a repressed shudder. He cleans himself off and gets debriefed about his next session from Liam, who he’ll be working jointly with.

“You honestly won’t be doing too much. I’ll be running the scene. Just don’t say anything to the client, yeah? There’s like a, whatsit, a hierarchy. Zayn is usually, just, like, furniture with this guy, yeah? Like a footstool or a table or something.”

“Got it.”

“Red’s the safe word. He won’t hurt you, yeah? I’ll make sure of it. Plus he’s respectful.”

“Okay.”

“You trust me, right?”

“I trust you, Liam.” He shares a small smile, hunching his shoulders in, feeling tiny next to Liam even though he’s technically shorter than Harry. Liam is a certified beefcake, and while Harry knows he’s attractive (very attractive, according to his exes), he feels slightly inadequate around Liam. He’s grateful that he won’t have to run the scene himself, because he knows he’d fall apart.

Liam plants a hand on the back of Harry’s neck and leads him into the room, which contains an office-style desk and a narrow bookshelf. “Sit on the floor,” Liam mutters, pointing to one corner. “He requested a professor-student thing, with paddling. Me paddling him. Just stay quiet and do as I say.”

Harry nods mutely, sitting in the corner and crossing his legs. He keeps his eyes trained on the ground. “You’re obedient, I’ll give you that,” Liam says, giving him a smile.

Within five minutes, a man walks purposefully into the room and sits behind the desk. “Professor Cowell, sir, I really need to speak with you during your office hours. Is now a good time?” Liam asks from his standing position by the door, his voice steady and sure.

“Yes, Liam, come in. I have been a bit concerned about your grades lately. Is there something the matter?”

“You see, the thing is—I just get so distracted during lectures, just looking at you. Very—dominant and impressive, and I just want so much to be like you. Always so capable.”

“Well, well. I suppose I can teach you a thing or two about dominance, Liam,” says the client (Harry believes his name is Simon, but he won’t place bets on that), opening one of the drawers of the desk. “Do you need my direction or do you think you know what to do?”

“You know what, sir, I think you’ve inspired me.” Liam bodily moves Mr. Cowell to stand before pressing his upper back so he’s bent slightly over the desk. “You can take a little pain, can’t you, sir? You look so good like this, bent over, so strong.”

Liam snaps his fingers, making Harry look up. He gestures to his side, so Harry crawls over on all-fours and remains bent over, eyes on the floor. He hears Liam rummage around in the drawer more than sees it, then feels him deposit objects on his back. So that’s it, he’s a side table or an instrument table, kneeling next to someone whose name is literally Liam goddamn Payne.

He mentally counts off the number of times Liam paddles Mr. Cowell, the sound muffled slightly because he’s still wearing at least one layer of fabric (boxers or briefs, Harry doesn’t know, although he admits he’s curious).

They reach an impressive double-digits before Liam switches implements, none of which Harry can see—only feel and hear. He particularly enjoys the throaty little moans the client makes on impact. Liam seems like a good Dom, trusting himself but also communicating with patrons easily. He also makes sure to praise then, to keep them engaged. He even pets Harry’s head periodically, checking in with him nonverbally.

Harry begins to relax into it, although his knees hurt a touch—he knows his pain is nothing compared to what Liam is inflicting, and he smiles a little to himself at the thought. A part of him understands what could be pleasurable about being a Dom—being confident, giving people something they need and enjoy. It’s just, well, absolutely not something Harry seems capable of doing.

But he can definitely pretend to be a table, and he’s sure he can put that on his CV. Somewhere. Perhaps right beneath _acting like a fluffy little kitty cat_ and right above _staring at my coworker while he puts on a skirt._

Harry is slightly jealous of how much Mr. Cowell seems to be enjoying himself, if the little noises he makes are any indication. He even feels himself getting a little hard at the thought of it all, but he tries to suppress it. He wonders if he can rub one out in between sessions.

He’ll say one thing about his job: they’re fine with absolutely all iterations of human sexuality, and no one shames him for the things he finds attractive. Which is only fair, because Harry once walked in on Liam fucking Zayn while still dressed in his pretty little pencil skirt, for some reason calling him Veronica. Harry still dreams about it sometimes.

Harry begins to take pride in his own ability to be a table in someone else’s fuck fantasies. He loses track of time before long, daydreaming about dressing up in lacy panties while someone (someone named Louis) fucks him hard. He’s surprised when the session concludes, surprised when Mr. Cowell leaves the room wobbly-legged and thankful.

He’s even more surprised when Liam helps him to his feet and wraps him in a warm hug. “So good, Harry, you were so great. I’m proud of you, babe. What do you need? Let me get you some water, love, come on.” He leads Harry out of the room, discussing the importance of aftercare and putting arnica cream on bruises.

Harry beams under Liam’s attention, something hot uncoiling in his chest. He tunes back in to the conversation about a moment, with Liam offering to take him to lunch as soon as they clean off and regroup. “You’re all right, you know, H. This isn’t the easiest line of work. It’s not for everyone,” he adds as he changes clothes, opting for a pair of trackies and an oversized tank top.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees readily, changing clothes slowly. “But you’re like, really good at it.”

“Thanks. I like it enough. A lot, actually.”

“How’d you, like, get into this whole thing?”

“I used to fuck the owner,” Liam says conversationally, shutting his locker. “Something about a ten-inch cock really impressed him, I guess.”

Harry nearly chokes as he tries not to laugh. “Five years, though? How old are you?”

Liam rubs one hand along the nape of his neck. “I’ve been working here since I was sixteen. Practically a tourist attraction,” he adds, rolling his eyes as they leave the locker room. “Bodies like this are built, not born. I started out as the most ridiculous twink, I swear.”

“I’ve been there. But, like, you and Nick? What about you and Zayn?”

“I’m—” Liam pauses, biting his bottom lip. “He’s not out to his family. Complicated.”

“But you want to?”

“We’ll see.”

“Is that—how does that work? I still haven’t even seen an employee handbook, so like, what are the rules on fraternizing?”

“Excuse me? Fraternizing?”

“It means—”

“I know what it means, dick! I just meant, you know, who is it you’ve got your eye on?”

_“No one.”_

“Is it Nick? Might work in your favour, he likes ‘em young and kinda docile.”

“Ah, no, stop! No way, no.” Harry grimaces.

Liam’s face goes slack for a moment while Harry flushes. “Really, H? Meaning what? Because he’s actually pretty n—”

“No, it’s not like that! I promise, Liam, I promise. He’s just not my type. That’s all, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Liam snorts. “Fuck whoever told you that you could be a Dom, all right? Because they’re not to be trusted.” They’re silent for a moment, walking companionably. “Is it Zayn?”

“No.”

“Is it…me? Because I’m flattered but kind of already involved, just so you know.”

“No, Liam, but thanks for letting me down gently. You’re a real gent.”

Liam rolls his eyes. “I try.”

“It’s Louis,” Harry blurts, ducking his chin down.

“Oh!” Liam’s eyebrows shoot up. “Okay. Hm. He’s the newest other than you, actually, so I don’t know him all that well. Can’t help much. His clients really like him, though, yeah?”

“Not helping, Leemo, but I appreciate it.”

Lunch from there is pleasant, now that Harry is reassured that Liam doesn’t absolutely hate him from head to toe. They eat sushi and share embarrassing stories, of which Harry has decidedly more than Liam. He loses track of time and before he knows it, he realizes, mid-laugh, that he has a session in twenty minutes.

“You ever think this is kind of like therapy, for some people?” Harry muses aloud as he leaves a tip on the table. “You know, they schedule a time and put their trust in us, and it’s really cathartic for clients? Something?”

Liam snorts. “Mate, you have no idea. Just yesterday a guy broke down and admitted that he’s claustrophobic because his dad used to lock him in the closet and the only way he can get off is to curl up in a ball. It takes all kinds.”

They walk back to Grim’s Grotto in time for Harry’s next session, where the file says the client requested he wear a red thong and see-through raincoat. “Jesus,” he mutters as Liam claps him on the back. 

“Good luck!” he adds as he starts to walk away.

“Hey, Liam?” Harry calls out to his retreating figure. “What’s watersports? We don’t have a theme room with a boat or anything, do we? Liam, mate, you can’t just leave me here!” he says as Liam throws his head back and laughs.

“You’ll be golden,” is his response. “Speaking of, request a golden shower!”

“That doesn’t sound like fun,” Harry mutters, “not unless it involves unicorns somehow.”

As it turns out, the session does not involve unicorns. The plastic raincoat sticks to Harry’s skin uncomfortably, and although he has a fair amount of experience with thongs, the one he’s offered is a tad snug. He snaps the waistband and winces. “I’m gonna regret this.”

He enters the specified room which, alarmingly, has tarpaulins and plastic mats on the floor. The door opens almost as soon as he shuts it, and in walks—

“Ashton? Please, please tell me Gemma’s not with you,” Harry almost yells, thinking of the time his sister caught him watching gay porn on the family computer. It took weeks for him to recover, and he can’t imagine he’ll be able to live this down for years.

“Harry? What—is this a surprise party or something? What’s going on? And why in fuck’s name are you wearing—is that a thong?”

“Why are you here?”

“Harry, _what is this place?”_

“It’s a dungeon.”

“That explains nothing!” Ashton crows loudly.

“I work here, but like, I’m the receptionist, I don’t normally do this, only people are out sick today and I offered to fill in.”

“Oh my god.” Ashton buries his face in his hands, groaning.

After a moment, Harry asks, “Ashton, what’s watersports?”

“Fucking shit, my friends are the worst,” he responds, moving his hands. “Stupid prank birthday, I swear to god.”

“So Gemma’s not here then?”

“No, thankfully my friends saw fit not to humiliate me in front of my girlfriend. I hate them.”

“I kind of hate them too.”

Ashton places one hand on the doorknob. “Hey, so, Harry. Just for the sake of, like, not having to explain it—”

“Yeah, no, we’re never mentioning this to anyone. Ever.”

“Thanks. Also, it’s weeing.”

_“It’s what now.”_

“This never happened!” Ashton calls as he leaves the room. “But you look great in that thong, mate, really. Good genes in your family!”

So Harry finds that he has some free time on his hands until his final client of the day, during which he showers in scalding water and angrily jacks off. His last session is, apparently, a bit high-profile, he’s been warned, so Nick briefs him about disclosure.

“She can be a bit of a diva, but it’s nothing you can’t handle, I’m sure. She tips really well, too. All yours.”

“Oh, okay.”

“And I forgot to mention, if you need a back massage, a friend of mine works down the lane, we all get discounts. This job’s not for wimps, you know?”

 _What am I getting myself into,_ Harry asks himself silently, as he does every single day since he got the job. He changes into the outfit that was requested—a pair of frilly black panties—and sits on the leather chair in a nearly-empty room, waiting.

When she walks into the room, Harry is surprised to find he _does_ recognize her, having seen her on the cover of various girly mags over the years. He’s even been known to hum a few of her songs when he hears them on the radio. He knows better than to comment, however.

“On the floor,” she commands. “Face down.” Now he’s lying on the cold, hard ground because _of course he is,_ and she drops her purse near his head. “Prepared, little man? About to get down to it.” She’s American, which Harry knew, and she’s fucking terrifying. Without preamble, she steps on his back, stiletto digging into his skin. He makes an involuntary noise, and she chuckles. “Hold still.”

He tries his best, but it’s difficult, given that he is a person and not actually a piece of wood. His breath goes shallow. “Don’t be a sissy, now. You’re a sissy, are you?” She jabs her next step particularly hard on a spot near Harry’s kidney, and he huffs out a breath.

“N-no?” he says slowly, quietly, in case he’s not supposed to answer her.

“Prove it, my little slut. There’s a boy,” she says, jabbing one shoulder with her heel.

With that, Harry’s eyes sting with tears but he holds it together. He supposes he has to.

“Are you crying?” she asks as Harry emits a soft sniffle. “Poor little baby can’t handle a little pain. Are you a pansy boy?” 

“N-No, I’m, I’m—” Harry tries with a soft whimper as she presses down harder.

“Oh, you are,” she murmurs, making Harry blush and arch his back in way that throws off her balance, causing her heel to jab him in the shoulder blade.

“Stop it, you fucktoy, hold still! I’m paying for this, aren’t I?” she taunts, voice commanding with a vicious edge. “Don’t you want your tip?” she threatens, giving him another kick. 

“Yes,” Harry whines, biting down on his lip, the metallic taste of blood hitting his tongue. 

“Oh, good. Why don’t you just cry like the little fag you are.” She snorts, giving him one last swift jab in the side.

And that’s it, really, Harry can’t hold it in anymore. He breaks down and begins to cry. He cries in a way he hasn’t since he was fourteen, the last time anyone had dared to call him that name. In an instant, a flood of memories come back to him, all the slurs, taunting, and relentless teasing he suffered at the hand of his schoolmates. 

“Where do you want me to leave the tip?” she interrupts, tone icy and not showing the least bit of concern for Harry, despite his audible sobbing.

“The table,” Harry whimpers, lying motionless and praying she knows better than to linger too long. He listens carefully as she gathers her things, and he lets out a long sigh before walking out of the room, her heels clacking behind her. 

Louis finds him almost immediately, and Harry figures he probably saw her leave. He doesn’t have the energy to get up and waits for Louis to come to him. Louis straddles his hips from behind and starts kneading out the knots, murmuring to him sweetly. “Oh baby, I’m so sorry, sweetheart. So sorry, love. Did no one warn you? I’ll see they have a talking-to, love, you’re just—you’re in such a state, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Harry sobs on an exhale, his voice ragged and sharp.

“No, my love, it’s not. What did—what did she call you? I know a little about—well.”

“I was fine until she called me a fag, Lou, I was fine.”

Louis clambers off Harry’s body and tucks him against his own body, pulling him into his lap. “Oh, babe, I’m so sorry. She’s just—she’s just the worst.”

“Louis,” Harry cries into Louis’s soft hair, enjoying the feeling of the press of their bodies. “I don’t think I can do that again.”

“Haz, sweetie, you can screen your own clients, I promise, it’s okay. Zayn’s got this weird impermeability, he doesn’t care what the fuck anyone does to him, it’s kinda robotic and creepy. Not the point. You never have to see her, love, it’s fine, this was a one-off.”

“Okay,” Harry nods, peeking up at Louis with red-rimmed eyes. “Sorry, you’re probably busy, you don’t have to stay.” He sniffs and wipes a tear from his cheek with the back of his hand.

“Yes I do,” Louis replies immediately, pulling Harry closer and rocking him back and forth a bit. “Someone has to look after you, doll. It’s the only way to make it in this line of work. We all look after each other, some more intimately than others.” He laughs softly, pressing a gentle kiss into Harry’s curls.

“Thanks.” Harry sighs heavily, settling into Louis’ arms easily and soaking up all gentle affection radiating from him. “I’m so glad she was my last client. I just want to go home and run a bath, maybe raid my flatmate’s endless booze supply,” he mumbles, nuzzling his face against Louis’ neck.

“Or, you could, maybe, come to my place and let me take care of you,” Louis suggests slowly. “I’ve got wine, can’t cook to save me life, but we could order take away.” He offers a gentle smile.

“Yeah?” Harry perks up.

“Yeah, I’m quite good at this whole comfort thing—had loads of practice with my little sisters.” Louis nods proudly with a peck to Harry’s forehead.

“Would it be like—um, a date?” Harry asks tentatively, his body feeling lighter, feeling giddy.

“If you want it to be.” Louis smirks like an imp, waggling his eyebrows at Harry.

“Yes! I want that!” he replies a bit too enthusiastically. Then he schools his face, trying to appear a bit less eager before speaking again. “I mean, that would be okay with me,” he amends with a shrug.

“Brilliant!” Louis cheers, hugging Harry a bit tighter. “I’ll just give you a bit to change then. Unless, of course, you want to wear those. They are quite fetching.” He laughs, eyes drifting down to the frilly panties hugging Harry’s hips. 

“Thanks and—sorry but I’m going to change, as disappointing as that is.” Harry smiles, getting up from Louis’ lap. “They itch like a motherfuck.” He giggles, reminding himself to compliment Zayn on his incredible tolerance for ridiculous clothing and even more ridiculous clients. 

Harry gets dressed faster than he ever has, probably in his life. He has to hold in a face-splitting grin when he finds Louis waiting from him in the reception area, swiveling around in his chair. 

“Hi, beautiful,” Louis purrs, getting up from the chair to greet Harry with a kiss. 

This feels different than when Liam bought him lunch earlier. Louis cares differently, and there’s a bit of a spark when they kiss. The way he holds Harry’s hand is tender, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into the skin. And thankfully, the feeling is mutual, Harry thinks to himself, and he hopes that it shows in the way he gives Louis’ hand a gentle squeeze. 

“What kind of food do you want, babe?” Louis asks sweetly, swinging their hands a bit as they walk out the front door.

“I want whatever you want,” he replies honestly, for the first time all day. 

“Well, I think that can be arranged. Ya know, given that all I want is to make you smile and treat you like you deserve,” Louis says softly, standing on his toes to reach Harry’s lips and give him a firm, beautiful kiss. 

_This is more than I deserve but exactly what I want,_ Harry thinks to himself as they walk down the street toward what, he hopes, is the first of many dates. 

(And he’s gratified when Zayn gives him his tips for the rest of the week, apologizing for the hassle and the pain and the series of insults he received. Harry forgives him, just barely.)

**Author's Note:**

> tumblrs!!!!!
> 
> musiclily88: musiclily
> 
> sweet_disposition: littlemisscraic


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